


Count Me Out

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The "Unnamed" Series [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" 'I am not having sex with you,' she hisses in his ear. It's an odd thing to say, in or out of context, but especially in. Because in context she's stripping off her short leather jacket. She dropping it behind her like an afterthought. Like it's the second biggest nuisance in her life, and he's still number one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count Me Out

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Count Me Out
> 
> WC: ~2800
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Alternate ending for 1 x 06, Always Buy Retail.

"Never. Ever. Call me 'kitten'."

He leans in closer than he needs to. He steals one more moment. One more breath of this heady mixture. Adrenaline and wine and him and her. She doesn't back off. Not an inch, though her head tips up and her lips part in a surprised O.

He slots the champagne flute between her fingers. Closes his palm around her hand and leaves it with her. He steps away, and it's only the sheer perfection of his parting shot that makes it possible.

He runs out of hallway in two strides and, thank God, there's a door with an exit sign burning bright over it. He pushes through into the stairwell and presses a fist to the poured concrete wall. He waits for the solid thump of the door closing behind him to drag in a breath.

It doesn't come. Not right away. He turns halfway, just in time to see her catch the edge swinging inward. She fills the oblong of light blazing in from the hallway for a long string of heartbeats and then she's on him.

The door bangs shut. It cuts off the buzz of the active crime scene. The calm drone of uniforms taking statements. The shrill rise of Diana Edwards' voice. It's all gone and there's just the two of them.

"I am not having sex with you," she hisses in his ear.

It's an odd thing to say, in or out of context, but especially in.

Because in context she's stripping off her short leather jacket. She dropping it behind her like an afterthought. Like it's the second biggest nuisance in her life, and he's still number one.

In context she's walking him back into the wall and the sharp corners of her shield are digging into his thigh and he wonders what she did with the champagne.

He wonders, then he doesn't. He tastes it on her tongue. He smells its sweetness on the breath that burns along his cheek. He pictures her tossing it back. The faint pink arc of a lip print. Hers overlaying his. Her elbow jerking up toward the ceiling. The stem of the glass catching light and gold tipping down her throat.

His fingers trace the long path of it. Pale on pale from the sharp slash of her jaw down to the bright diagonal of her vee-neck. A shiver runs through her and leaps like a spark to him.

"I'm not," she says again.

"Ok?"

It's an odd thing to say, too, and he hates the rising inflection. The little boy question mark at the end. He hates that ten seconds ago he had the upper hand for once. For once in all these weeks.

He scowls at her. He tries, but she's laughing up at him. She's tipping her head to the side and not killing him when he takes her up on the invitation. When his mouth lands on the newly bare expanse and he tastes the salt of her skin.

He doesn't care, then. He doesn't care what he sounds like or whose hands are whose. He doesn't care what's going on as long as it keeps going.

It does. She's fierce and efficient. She's done with her own jacket, so she makes short work of his. He doesn't miss the hint of regret before she lets it go. The briefest pause to run the softness of the fabric through her fingers. She likes the color. He sees that in the flick of her gaze from dark blue to the lighter shade of his shirt. She likes the feel of it.

He files it away. Closes his eyes and buries his hands in the blunt ends of her hair as he slides his mouth back up to hers. He tastes champagne again and means to file it all under Nikki. The things she likes. The sharp scent of her and this maddening blend of playfulness and sheer fury as her teeth catch his lower lip none too gently.

He means to use it. Later. In the dead of night, because he'll never sleep again, and right now she's tugging his shirttails free. The cold metal of her cuffs presses into his bare skin. He breathes into it. Savors the shock. The thrill of a devastating detail for their first time. Nikki and whatever his name will be.

He means to notice. To catalog, remember, and keep. All of it—whatever this is—he means to keep it for Nikki, but it's her name he breathes.

"Kate."

She stiffens. She jerks back from him, and the sudden, howling absence of her in his arms is enough to break him wide open. To leave him staggered by all the things he knows about her. The details he drinks in and tucks away. The fact that none of it has a thing to do with Nikki. None of it.

"Beckett." It's not a breath this time. Not a question, and it's sure as hell not any kind of apology. He's not letting her go. Not letting this go, whatever it is. One hand closes over the curve of her hip, the other claims her shoulder. He pulls her to him in one sharp tug. Her jaw twitches. He kisses it. Brings his teeth to bear and lets his own rough cheek drag along its smooth curve. "You're not. Fine. I know."

"Good," she hisses back.

She lands a savage bite beneath his ear. Emphasis. Counterattack. He doesn't care. He turns with her. Pins her body to the wall. Frames it with elbows in and palms flat on concrete. She writhes against him. Shoves his hips back with her own and chases his mouth.

Her fingers are busy. Deft and cruel and fucking brilliant as she works open his belt buckle with a flourish.

It's ridiculous. He decides it's ridiculous that she has him half out of his pants and he's hardly touched her. He spreads his fingers wide and drags upward from her hip. The fabric of her shirt bunches beneath his palm as it skates over cool skin and soft cotton. He stops just shy of her breast, fingertips hovering.

A name floats through his mind. Amber something. The first girl he got to second base with, and he was never this nervous. Not a hundred years ago with Amber what's-her-name. Not with anyone.

He's frozen. His fingers flutter, and he has a mad, terrible instinct to ask permission. Beckett, may I. The words march crazily over his tongue. He bites them back just in time, but she giggles anyway.

She giggles.

His eyes fly open and she's staring him down. It's cool and fierce and strongly implies that he's imagining things. He decides that he is. He wants to live and he is definitely imagining things.

He gulps. Opens his mouth to apologize, but she dives in. She kisses him before he can. Another bite and a dotted trail of light presses of her lips against his. She arches up into him. Nudges at his palm with her ribs and mutters, "Ticklish. Shut up."

"Shutting up," he mutters back. He anchors the heel of his hand and lets his fingers roam. They brush over lace and satin and the firm peak of her nipple rising under his touch.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. He lets go the hem of her shirt. Draws his hand up with no more than a chaste sweep of fingers flaring wide along her side. She breaks a kiss, tearing her mouth from his with an outraged noise that he tells himself is nowhere near adorable.

He captures her jaw in his palm. He kisses her hard and presses the advantage when he feels her breath skip and her eyes flutter shut. His hand drops heavy to her shoulder. He slides his fingers under the wide vee of her neckline and shoves. Hooks the silky strap of her bra along the way and bares more of her to his traveling lips. Collarbone. Shoulder. The fullness of her breast spilling over the demi-cup of a bra that's every bit as pretty and wicked as every fantasy he's ever had.

He sweeps his palm down, bolder now. He ducks his head. Just brushes his lips once over her skin and pulls back a fraction of an inch, hovering and drawing another impatient noise from her. He laughs. Traces the scalloped edge of black lace with the very tip of his tongue, roughing his cheek against her now and then 'till she sags against the wall, breathless in his arms.

"Castle!"

He pushes too far. Teases a little too long, and she's eager. She twists. A violent motion of one shoulder and something knocks hard against his temple.

"Ow!"

He reaches up blindly with his free hand. His fingers close around it. Her mother's ring. He knows before he knows. Before she goes absolutely rigid. Absolutely still. Before her name forms on his tongue and he meets her eyes.

He knows this is the end. That this is over, and any second she'll shove him away. She'll straighten her shirt and bend at the waist with that quick, matter-of-fact grace. She'll hook her jacket with one long finger and push through the door. Any second she'll go. She'll leave him behind.

But the seconds stretch on and on and she doesn't move. She doesn't leave.

He lets the ring go. He stills it against her chest. She watches him with wide eyes, balanced on a blade's edge between anger and pain.

"Beckett," he whispers. He presses a kiss to the valley between her breasts, keeping his eyes on her all the while.

"Kate." Another kiss. The barest hint of teeth this time and everything shifts.

She's clawing at his hips. She's snaking her calf behind his knee and working sinful, efficient hands between their bodies.

His tongue darts from skin to lace and back again. He teases her nipple, pulling it between his teeth. He sucks and releases. Warms it with his breath and entirely forgets what he's doing at all when she wraps her fingers around him and strokes hard.

"Beckett," he hisses. "Jesus. I thought . . . "

She shuts him up. The hand that isn't currently hell bent on destroying him slides into his hair and she kisses him. She coaxes him up. Her hand creeps out of his boxers again and he tries not to whimper. She pats his pockets. Laughs when he stands there, dumb and confused with his hands hovering uselessly at her sides. She tugs his wallet free from the right front. She flips it open and finds what she's looking for on the first try.

She's all business as she palms the foil packet. As she shifts her hips and fixes him with an expectant look. A suggestion. Another invitation, and part of his brain is screaming that she said they weren't . . . that she wasn't . . . that maybe he shouldn't . . .

It shouts long and loud but his hands aren't that stupid. They're curling at her back and roaming low. They're skimming over her hips and toying with the button of the tightest jeans in the world. They're listening when she breathes a yes into his mouth. A now a moment later when he hesitates.

They're helping. Staying out of the way when she slaps them aside and peels the dark fabric down. They're tugging and gliding and exploring until he's quiet in his mind, too. Until there's nothing but the inevitable turn of the two of them together. Another turn and another, their hungry mouths never breaking for long, and she's braced in the corner, climbing his body. She's reaching between them and he's holding her up. Leaning in to give her thighs better purchase on his hips and she's sinking down over him.

He kisses her. He tips his chin up, nudging hers along and kisses her, soft and light and feeling. It's too late for a first kiss, but that's what this is. He's moving inside her. She's pressing herself closer, listening to his breath and finding a pace, a rhythm. He's winding high already, worried that it won't last. That it can't. But their lips glide together. They part and meet and it's a first kiss anyway.

He's caught up in it. The kiss. The play of her tongue and the taste of her. He's lost. Drowning in it as her hands wander and drift. As her nails rake and her fingertips soothe and her palm works down between them. She curls her thumb makes a ring around the base of him. The bottom drops out of his world. She traps him. Tightens her legs around him, presses herself hard—hard—against him and grinds. Her fingers stroke and tease. His body. Hers. He surges up into her, again, again, again and breathes a long, profane prayer of relief when her spine straightens. When every inch of her body clenches and lets go in a long, long sinuous shiver.

He leans into her, willing his shaking legs to hold on just a little longer. He strokes her hair. Kisses her eyelids and her cheeks. He breathes nonsense endearments not quite silently against her neck. He does it quick. All of it in a rush while she's still half out of her mind and he's further gone than that.

She groans then. She stretches and rolls her shoulders. She ducks her head to his ear. She breathes in and out. Whispers down and brushes her lips over his cheek as he complies. As he eases he gently to the floor.

He steps back. He's crowding her into the corner, still, and the concrete has to be cold. He tries to step back, but his pants are halfway down his thighs and it hits him suddenly. The awkwardness of it. That they're in a fucking stairwell.

His heart sinks. His mouth opens and closes on an explanation. An apology?

But she grins up at him. She stoops and gropes through the small pile of things at their feet. She braces a palm against his thigh and gives the hem of his boxers a tug. "Jeans, Castle."

"Jeans." He repeats it. Turns it over on his tongue and it's nonsense at first. She rolls her eyes.

"Jeans," he says again and it means something. It has him moving. It has her moving, too, and somehow between them, they straighten and tuck and clean up.

It's silent. Efficient for the most part and strange. It's awkward and it's not. It's terrible and it's not.

And then it's over and there's nothing but a blush of color in her cheeks and the loud tangle of his mind to say that it ever happened.

It's over and she's going.

Like hell she is.

He catches her by the elbow. He spins her toward him. Right into his body, and he wraps his other arm around her like he expects her to fight. He does. He kind of does. There's a hot blaze behind her eyes—there and gone in a second—that tells him he's not wrong.

"I thought you weren't having sex with me."

It's the dumbest thing imaginable. Not that he'd had much time to imagine anything else. But it's award-winningly dumb.

She laughs, though. She leans back against his arm, the bend of her spine lazy and unconcerned. She studies him. Up and down and up again.

"Didn't," she says when she reaches his eyes.

"Did too." Jesus, he's an idiot. A complete blathering idiot and he can't shut up. "Is this some kind of technical virginity thing? Because you're really bad at it, Beckett. Really . . ."

She cuts him off. Saves him, probably. "Oh, I'm no kind of virgin, Castle."

"Well, obviously." His jaw snaps shut too late. Far too late, but she grins. She just grins.

"Castle." She straightens his lapel, her tone maddening and reasonable. "I'm a grown woman. It's a stairwell."

Her palm drops to his fingers on her hip. She uncurls them, one by one. She shakes his hand loose, but keeps hold of it. She lifts it to her mouth, eyes on him all the while. She slides the tip of his thumb between her lips. Her tongue darts out and back. Takes a taste and shares it. Champagne and him and her on her quick little tongue.

"Doesn't count," she whispers.

She steps back. Puts space between them, but she doesn't go. Not yet. They're toe to toe, and God, he wants her. All of her. The chase and the work and this fucking maddening thing they do. He wants her, and the world snaps back into place, centered on the truth of it.

He straightens. Squares his shoulders to her. "Bulletproof logic, Detective."

"You're surprised?"

He thinks about it. He is. One way or another his fantasies never end like this. Never with her going, just like that.

He lies anyway. "Not a bit."

She smiles. A wide open thing. She gives him a satisfied nod.

"Night, Castle," she says, and he can breathe again.

Fear he hadn't even known about lets go. He knows his line and so does she. She waits for it. She looks up at him and he knows—he knows—that she won't turn and go until he says it. Call and response. It's certainty of a kind. Enough for now, if only because it has to be.

"Until tomorrow."  



End file.
